Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield Fisher (iphone ebook reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Dorothy Canfield Fisher
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Elizabeth Ann thought for a moment, cuddling Eleanor up to her face. âI
think it is the third from the front in the second row.â She wondered
why Aunt Abigail cared. âOh, I guess thatâs your Uncle Henryâs desk.
Itâs the one his father had, too. Are there a couple of H. P.âs carved
on it?â
Betsy nodded.
âHis father carved the H. P. on the lid, so Henry had to put his inside.
I remember the winter he put it there. It was the first season Mother
let me wear real hoop skirts. I sat in the first seat on the third row.â
Betsy ate her apple more and more slowly, trying to take in what Aunt
Abigail had said. Uncle Henry and HIS FATHERâwhy Moses or Alexander the
Great didnât seem any further back in the mists of time to Elizabeth Ann
than did Uncle Henryâs FATHER! And to think he had been a little boy,
right there at that desk! She stopped chewing altogether for a moment
and stared into space. Although she was only nine years old, she was
feeling a little of the same rapt wonder, the same astonished sense of
the reality of the people who have gone before, which make a first visit
to the Roman Forum such a thrilling event for grown-ups. That very desk!
After a moment she came to herself, and finding some apple still in her
mouth, went on chewing meditatively. âAunt Abigail,â she said, âhow long
ago was that?â
âLetâs see,â said the old woman, peeling apples with wonderful rapidity.
âI was born in 1844. And I was six when I first went to school. Thatâs
sixty-six years ago.â
Elizabeth Ann, like all little girls of nine, had very little notion how
long sixty-six years might be. âWas George Washington alive then?â she
asked.
The wrinkles around Aunt Abigailâs eyes deepened mirthfully, but she did
not laugh as she answered, âNo, that was long after he died, but the
schoolhouse was there when he was alive.â
âIt WAS!â said Betsy, staring, with her teeth set deep in an apple.
âYes, indeed. It was the first house in the valley built of sawed
lumber. You know, when our folks came up here, they had to build all
their houses of logs to begin with.â
âThey DID!â cried Betsy, with her mouth full of apple.
âWhy yes, child, what else did you suppose they had to make houses out
of? They had to have something to live in, right off. The sawmills came
later.â
âI didnât know anything about it,â said Betsy. âTell me about it.â
âWhy you knew, didnât youâyour Aunt Harriet must have told youâabout
how our folks came up here from Connecticut in 1763, on horseback!
Connecticut was an old settled place then, compared to Vermont. There
wasnât anything here but trees and bears and wood-pigeons. Iâve heard
âem say that the wood-pigeons were so thick you could go out after dark
and club âem out of the trees, just like hens roosting in a hen-house.
There always was cold pigeon-pie in the pantry, just the way we have
doughnuts. And they used bear-grease to grease their boots and their
hair, bears were so plenty. It sounds like good eating, donât it! But of
course that was just at first. It got quite settled up before long, and
by the time of the Revolution, bears were getting pretty scarce, and
soon the wood-pigeons were all gone.â
âAnd the schoolhouseâthat schoolhouse where I went todayâwas that
built THEN?â Elizabeth Ann found it hard to believe.
âYes, it used to have a great big chimney and fireplace in it. It was
built long before stoves were invented, you know.â
âWhy, I thought stoves were ALWAYS invented!â cried Elizabeth Ann. This
was the most startling and interesting conversation she had ever taken
part in.
Aunt Abigail laughed. âMercy, no, child! Why, I can remember when only
folks that were pretty well off had stoves and real poor people still
cooked over a hearth fire. I always thought it a pity they tore down the
big chimney and fireplace out of the schoolhouse and put in that big,
ugly stove. But folks are so daft over new-fangled things. Well, anyhow,
they couldnât take away the sun-dial on the window-sill. You want to be
sure to look at that. Itâs on the sill of the middle window on the right
hand as you face the teacherâs desk.â
âSun-dial,â repeated Betsy. âWhatâs that?â
âWhy to tell the time by, whenââ
âWhy didnât they have a clock?â asked the child.
Aunt Abigail laughed. âGood gracious, there was only one clock in the
valley for years and years, and that belonged to the Wardons, the rich
people in the village. Everybody had sun-dials cut in their window-sills. Thereâs one on the window-sill of our pantry this minute. Come
on, Iâll show it to you.â She got up heavily with her pan of apples, and
trotted briskly, shaking the floor as she went, over to the stove. âBut
first just watch me put these on to cook so youâll know how.â She set
the pan on the stove, poured some water from the tea-kettle over the
apples, and put on a cover. âNow come on into the pantry.â
They entered a sweet-smelling, spicy little room, all white paint, and
shelves which were loaded with dishes and boxes and bags and pans of
milk and jars of preserves.
âThere!â said Aunt Abigail, opening the window. âThatâs not so good as
the one at school. This only tells when noon is.â
Elizabeth Ann stared stupidly at the deep scratch on the window-sill.
âDonât you see?â said Aunt Abigail. âWhen the shadow got to that mark it
was noon. And the rest of the time you guessed by how far it was from
the mark. Letâs see if I can come anywhere near it now.â She looked at it
hard and said: âI guess itâs half-past four.â She glanced back into the
kitchen at the clock and said: âOh pshaw! Itâs ten minutes past five!
Now my grandmother could have told that within five minutes, just by the
place of the shadow. I declare! Sometimes it seems to me that every time
a new piece of machinery comes into the door some of our wits fly out at
the window! Now I couldnât any more live without matches than I could
fly! And yet they all used to get along all right before they had
matches. Makes me feel foolish to think Iâm not smart enough to get
along, if I WANTED to, without those little snips of pine and brimstone.
Here, Betsy, take a cooky. Itâs against my principles to let a child
leave the pantry without having a cooky. My! it does seem like living
again to have a young one around to stuff!â
Betsy took the cooky, but went on with the conversation by exclaiming,
âHOW could ANYbody get along without matches? You HAVE to have
matches.â
Aunt Abigail didnât answer at first. They were back in the kitchen now.
She was looking at the clock again. âSee here,â she said; âitâs time I
began getting supper ready. We divide up on the work. Ann gets the
dinner and I get the supper. And everybody gets his own breakfast. Which
would you rather do, help Ann with the dinner, or me with the supper?â
Elizabeth Ann had not had the slightest idea of helping anybody with any
meal, but, confronted unexpectedly with the alternative offered, she
made up her mind so quickly that she didnât want to help Cousin Ann, and
declared so loudly, âOh, help YOU with the supper!â that her promptness
made her sound quite hearty and willing. âWell, thatâs fine,â said Aunt
Abigail. âWeâll set the table now. But first you would better look at
that apple sauce. I hear it walloping away as though it was boiling too
fast. Maybe youâd better push it back where it wonât cook so fast. There
are the holders, on that hook.â
Elizabeth Ann approached the stove with the holder in her hand and
horror in her heart. Nobody had ever dreamed of asking her to handle hot
things. She looked around dismally at Aunt Abigail, but the old woman
was standing with her back turned, doing something at the kitchen table.
Very gingerly the little girl took hold of the handle of the saucepan,
and very gingerly she shoved it to the back of the stove. And then she
stood still a moment to admire herself. She could do that as well as
anybody!
âWhy,â said Aunt Abigail, as if remembering that Betsy had asked her a
question. âAny man could strike a spark from his flint and steel that he
had for his gun. And heâd keep striking it till it happened to fly out
in the right direction, and youâd catch it in some fluff where it would
start a smoulder, and youâd blow on it till you got a little flame, and
drop tiny bits of shaved-up dry pine in it, and so, little by little,
youâd build your fire up.â
âBut it must have taken forEVER to do that!â
âOh, you didnât have to do that more than once in ever so long,â said
Aunt Abigail, briskly. She interrupted her story to say: âNow you put
the silver around, while I cream the potatoes. Itâs in that drawerâa
knife, a fork, and two spoons for each placeâand the plates and cups
are up there behind the glass doors. Weâre going to have hot cocoa again
tonight.â And as the little girl, hypnotized by the otherâs casual,
offhand way of issuing instructions, began to fumble with the knives and
forks she went on: âWhy, youâd start your fire that way, and then youâd
never let it go out. Everybody that amounted to anything knew how to
bank the hearth fire with ashes at night so it would be sure to last.
And the first thing in the morning, you got down on your knees and poked
the ashes away very carefully till you got to the hot coals. Then youâd
blow with the bellows and drop in pieces of dry pineâdonât forget the
water-glassesâand youâd blow gently till they flared up and the
shavings caught, and there your fire would be kindled again. The napkins
are in the second drawer.â
Betsy went on setting the table, deep in thought, reconstructing the old
life. As she put the napkins around she said, âBut SOMETIMES it must
have gone out âŠâ
âYes,â said Aunt Abigail, âsometimes it went out, and then one of the
children was sent over to the nearest neighbor to borrow some fire. Heâd
take a covered iron pan fastened on to a long hickory stick, and go
through the woodsâeverything was woods thenâto the next house and wait
till they had their fire going and could spare him a pan full of coals;
and thenâdonât forget the salt and pepperâhe would leg it home as fast
as he could streak it, to get there before the coals went out. Say,
Betsy, I think that apple sauce is ready to be sweetened. You do it,
will you? Iâve got my hands in the biscuit dough. The sugarâs in the
left-hand drawer in the kitchen cabinet.â
âOh, MY!â cried Betsy, dismayed. âI donât know how to cook!â
Aunt Abigail laughed and put back a strand of curly white hair with the
back of her floury hand. âYou know how to stir sugar into your cup of
cocoa, donât you?â
âBut how MUCH shall I put in?â asked Elizabeth Ann, clamoring for exact
instruction so she wouldnât need to do any thinking for
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